


Give Thanks for Mince Pies

by lilactreesinwinter



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: AU, First Meetings, Fluff, Linguistics, M/M, Nebulosity, Thanksgiving, mince pies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 12:49:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12794922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilactreesinwinter/pseuds/lilactreesinwinter
Summary: Dan is sat in the corner at Thankgiving when some new guests come through the door.Excerpt:Dan could see the speaker—Phil—across the room.  He was tall and dark-haired, and smiling broadly as he entertained his audience about—whatever he was talking about.  Dan felt slightly intrigued despite himself.“Now when youvoiceyour labio-dental fricative, it comes out vvvvvvvvv!  Like vroom!”Dan found himself catching his teeth on his lower lip to try out a labio-dental fricative, even though he thought 'voice' might have been a better example than 'vroom'.





	Give Thanks for Mince Pies

Dan was in the corner of the room, trying not to look too big for the lumpy armchair he had wedged himself into. By his elbow was a mug of the red wine he had brought, which his hostess had immediately pressed into his hand. The room was cosy against the outside chill and damp. Had Dan bothered to look out the steamed-over window beside him, he might have noted the muted smear of red and yellow and orange across the trees, glowing in the ruddy light of a late afternoon in autumn ('fall', here in America). Instead, he studied his phone.

The small house was filled with good smells of food and reverberated with the chatter and laughter of people unwinding scarves and flinging their arms about each other. When Dan's hostess, a fellow post-doc at the university, had invited him to her 'Thanksgiving dinner for singles and strays', he hadn't known what to expect. He had politely declined, but she insisted he just turn up if he changed his mind at the last minute.

Dan had fully intended to use this break, occasioned by a holiday meaningless to him, to get some serious work done on his research. He was already three months into his year-long post-doctoral fellowship, and he had precious little to show for it. He had jumped at the chance to be paid to spend time at this prestigious America university, turning some of the finer points of his doctoral dissertation into full journal papers, and collaborating with arguably the most eminent professor in his specialty. But the professor had been less interested in mentoring than Dan had imagined, and it turned out that he was not so well regarded in his own department, leaving Dan somewhat isolated by association. Dan had been asked to teach a seminar on his area of study: his students showed up and asked questions about the material, but he suspected they were being polite, and he was certain that his answers got too long and rambly for undergraduates to follow properly. 

But the philosophy building on campus had been so very empty that he couldn't concentrate, and his shockingly expensive rented room ('separate entrance/kitchen privileges/street parking') was too cold. His landlady, who must have been a flower child back in the day and who smoked more weed than he did, had explained that people who built houses in northern California used to pretend that winter never came, so all the charming older homes lacked insulation and central heating, making them quite miserable when the weather turned wet and chilly. 

So here he was, on this most American of holidays, in a house brimming with both Americans and expats, pretending not to be awkward and mostly hoping no one would notice him. He had thought that America was as good a place as any for taking a year's break from the tedious drama—both academic and personal—that had characterised his final year of school back home. He would keep his head down, gain some distance from grad school, and work out what he was going to do with the rest of his life. Then he could return to the UK refreshed and invigorated. At least that was the plan. So far he had mustered no enthusiasm for going home. Or for staying here longer than necessary. Or for much really.

The front door banged open. Dan thought he might have heard a few syllables of British English injected into the multilingual mix of greetings, but he didn't bother to look up. He didn't find someone interesting just because they had an English accent. The raucous group that had just arrived inexplicably began to drift into the living room. Dan slumped down in his seat, hoping they wouldn't crowd into his quiet corner.

“No! 'hkkkkhhhhk'—like a cat coughing up a fur ball! That's a velar fricative.”

Gales of laughter. Dan looked up in irritation from the subreddit he had just started on. Who had said such a ridiculous thing? Ah, it was the owner of the English accent—which was definitely a Northern accent, Dan decided.

“Your name is Felicity? That starts with a labio-dental fricative—fffffffffffffffff! Just like my name—Phil.”

Dan could see the speaker—Phil—across the room. He was tall and dark-haired, and smiling broadly as he entertained his audience about—whatever he was talking about. Dan felt slightly intrigued despite himself. 

“Now when you _voice_ your labio-dental fricative, it comes out vvvvvvvvv! Like vroom!”

Dan found himself catching his teeth on his lower lip to try out a labio-dental fricative, even though he thought 'voice' might have been a better example than 'vroom'.

“Then there is the bilabial-lingual fricative”—here Phil blew a raspberry—”and finally, the digital-labial fricative”—Phil pursed his lips and vibrated his index finger horizontally up and down against them whilst simultaneously humming. The group around him was laughing uncontrollably and Phil joined in, his tongue curling beyond his teeth.

Dan found he had a smile on his own face. He also found that thoughts of a fricative nature had sneaked into his consciousness as he watched the expressive face of the man across the room.

He quickly dropped his gaze back to his phone. He wasn't really in the mood to catch anyone's eye, especially when he might be grinning like an idiot.

Soon the hostess swept through, her pink sari swishing, and shooed him toward the food table. Dan picked up a plate and shuffled along the table, wedged between other guests on the same mission. He selected brussels sprouts, and long green beans with something not quite identifiable sprinkled on them, a dollop of mashed potatoes, and a serving of a casserole that appeared to be mostly brown rice and mushrooms ('vegan - gluten free'). He took a very small spoonful of cranberry sauce, not sure whether he would like it, and a couple of homemade rolls. He made haste back to his corner, grateful that no one had nabbed his secluded seat. 

He did get company for his meal, however. A pleasant-looking woman with a long braid sat in the next chair. After they had exchanged hellos, she looked over at his plate.

“You might have missed the turkey—it was on a table back in the kitchen.”

Dan shook his head. “I don't eat much meat. My brother's vegan, and I'm trying to follow his example. Not eating milk or cheese is harder, though.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Most people don't actually like turkey anyway. They just think they're supposed to eat it because it's Thanksgiving.”

It was Dan's turn to continue the conversation. His hands were occupied with his plate, and he couldn't possible pull out his phone without being terribly rude. He groped for something to say.

“Is it always this cold at Thanksgiving? I had hoped California would be warmer. It's almost as cold and wet as the UK.” 

“Oh, yes. Late November and December are the coldest time around here. Don't be surprised if you see frost on the ground some morning in the next few weeks. My kids love it—they call it 'snow'.”

They were able to chat about the weather for another minute or two. Just as the topic seemed exhausted, some shouts erupted from the TV room next door. As though some giant had picked up a corner of the house and tipped the floor, everyone seem to tumble into the other room, leaving Dan alone. Or almost. Sat a few chairs away was Phil, the man of fricatives.

Dan's tentative smile was all the encouragement Phil needed to pick up his plate and glass and move to the seat next to Dan. 

“Hello, I'm Phil. Not interested in American football either?”

Dan's brain was lagging: it was caught up in processing the ocean blueness of Phil's eyes, which seemed to have glints of green and gold in their depths.

“Oh! Er, right. Is that what it's about? I thought Thanksgiving was about eating, not watching football.”

“I've heard it's both. You know—Americans.” Phil added: “You're an expat, I take it?”

“Oh—only temporarily. This academic year. I have a fellowship at the university.” Dan finally remembered he should probably introduce himself, especially if he wanted this man to have any chance of remembering who he was. “I'm Dan. Nice to meet you. What brings you to the States?”

The corner of Phil's mouth quirked down. “A funeral. A good friend from uni grew up around here and his mum died suddenly. I thought I should come and support him. He's been rather a mess.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Yeah. I was scheduled to fly home yesterday, leave the family to themselves to share the holiday in private. But the airport was fogged in! I know San Francisco is supposed to be Fog City, but I didn't expect the airport to be shut down all day because of fog.”

“I know!” Dan exclaimed. “The weather here is crazy. Last week it pissed down rain for two days. It was a pineapple something. Even though that doesn't make any sense.”

“A Pineapple Express!” Phil looked very pleased to be able to share this information. “That's another name for an atmospheric river—when rain just pours in from the Pacific Ocean. Supposedly it starts near Hawaii—where pineapples come from, of course.”

Dan was fascinated by this man's eccentric knowledge and enthusiasm at imparting it. “How do you even know that?”

Phil laughed. There was the tongue again, peeking between his teeth. “I wanted to be a meteorologist growing up. I like learning weird weather facts about wherever I visit.”

“Oh. I was wondering what your area was. I was watching you earlier. Er, with all those fricatives.” Dan felt a blush creep over his cheeks.

“Fricatives are fun, aren't they!” Phil's laugh was easy and good-humoured. Could he possibly be flirting? Dan rather hoped the answer was yes. 

“Well, I am mostly an English teacher in a secondary school,” Phil continued. “But I sneak in as many linguistics facts as I can. The kids seem to like it.”

“I'm sure they do,” Dan murmured.

“But tell me about you. What is your fellowship all about?” His kind blue eyes settled on Dan's face, and he smiled expectantly.

Dan felt suddenly awkward again. He had grown to hate talking about his subject most of the time. People tended either to be politely confused or to start wondered aloud how anyone could fashion a career around spending all their time pondering such (absurd) things. He could just hope that Phil would be satisfied with the thirty-second version of Dan's thesis, and then they could get back to some of the more interesting topics that seemed to rattle around Phil's brain. He took a deep breath.

“I study the inherent indefiniteness of reality, what could be called 'ontological nebulosity'. Theories of reality that don't incorporate nebulosity all ultimately fail. So I've been working on a new theory....” Dan had thought he would stop after the two-sentence summary of the theory laid out in his dissertation, which he had spent his entire graduate career developing. Instead, he found himself getting into a proper rant for the first time in months. He found Phil a marvellous audience: his attention never wavered and his questions pulled Dan more deeply into his thinking about nebulosity than he had managed in months. 

Dan was surprised to be interrupted by their hostess. The room had somehow refilled without his noticing (mutters of 'half-time' and 'not watching that act again').

“I'm as enthusiastic about ontology as the next philosopher, but right now the only thing that matters is dessert. You two go get some pie before it's all gone.” She cocked her head at them with a smile and swept off.

Self-conscious at being addressed as 'you two' along with someone who was really a complete stranger, Dan turned to Phil with an apologetic half-shrug. He found his interlocutor had already stood and was waiting for him. As though they did this all the time.

Earlier dishes had been pushed aside, and the food table now displayed a long line of pies, most of which had already been cut into. Apple pies and pumpkin pies and a couple that seemed to be made with nuts. At the far end was a pie that was still whole—it smelled spicy and there were bubbles of rich brown filling around the vents in the crust. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Phil sounded excited. 

Dan bent down over the pie and breathed in. “Mince pie!”

“That's my favourite. Yours too?”

Dan grinned at Phil. It might have been an idiotic grin, but this time he didn't care.

They were sat together once again, enjoying their large slices of a quite delicious mince pie (no one else was eating it—it seemed to have been put there just for them), talking about music, and video games, and everything, when they were interrupted once more by their hostess, who was clapping her hands for attention. 

“I almost forgot! This holiday is called Thanksgiving—not Eat-Turkey-and-Watch-Football—and we have a tradition of going around and saying one thing we are thankful for.”

Dan's brain had apparently convinced him that since he was an expat this tradition wouldn't apply to him, so he was flustered and speechless when all the eyes in the room suggested that his turn had come. He knew what he was thankful for. He was thankful for this man who had suddenly appeared in his life, bringing with him gorgeous eyes and unusual facts and a reason to look forward to going back to the UK. Someone who was easy to talk to and listened to what he had to say and who loved mince pies as much as he did.

“Mince pies!” Dan blurted out.

“I was going to say mince pies too!” Phil laughed, and with that the beam of social scrutiny moved on, and they were back in their own bubble in the corner of the room, and Dan was happy.

Later, outside on the dark street waiting for Phil's ride, they were stood close together, looking at the stars as a few scraps of high cirrus clouds drifted past them. When the car turned around the corner, Phil drew Dan into a tight hug. As they pulled apart, he held Dan an extra moment. “See you soon, yeah?” The taste of mince pie was still in his mouth and the stars  
might have reflected in his eyes as Dan nodded yes.

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on Tumblr](https://phinalphantasy7.tumblr.com/).


End file.
